


Pretty Work, Brave Boys

by FlyingMachine



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Espionage, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Peril, S3:E3 Benediction, Season 3 Spoilers, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 01:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6883387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingMachine/pseuds/FlyingMachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1776-1782: Ben and Caleb's wartime adventures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Work, Brave Boys

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains spoilers for Season 3 through Episode 3.

_1776_

The Elizabethtown Tavern was an absolute dive, and the reek of unwashed bodies and stale beer slapped Ben in the face as he hitched his charger to rail outside. He checked the priming on his pistol and loosened his hunting knife in its sheath before he stepped inside. A blue-coated soldier with a courier’s case tossed him a salute, which Ben returned as he scanned the room. He found an empty table in the corner.

A mug appeared in front of him, and Ben looked up to find the pretty barmaid smiling down at him. Dark curls framed her delicate features, and Ben was reminded of Anna Strong.

“On the house for you, Captain,” she said. She bent and dropped a kiss on his cheek. “The man at the bar with the pistol is watching you,” she whispered in his ear. Ben found the man in question. He’d poorly concealed the pistol under his coat, and every so often he glanced Ben’s direction.

“Thank you,” Ben replied. He took a cautious sip of the beer. It was adequate, and would give him something to do while he waited for Caleb and kept an eye on the spy at the bar.

He was halfway through his drink when Caleb slid into the chair across from him. The barmaid sat a mug down in front of him before she draped herself across Caleb’s lap, leaning down for a kiss. Ben waited patiently for an explanation.

“Genevieve, I see you’ve met Ben,” Caleb said, when he was at liberty to speak.

“Caleb’s told me all about you, Captain,” she said, looking Ben over.

“Has he?” Ben asked. He shot Caleb a look. He hoped Caleb hadn’t revealed the details of their true purpose here. Genevieve looked down at Caleb from her perch on his knee.

“You didn’t tell me he was so handsome,” she said. Ben felt a flush creep up his neck. Caleb smirked at him.

“Ginny’s very fond of soldiers,” he said.

“And they’re fond of me,” she said. She took a long sip of Caleb’s beer. “Men will say almost anything if you lace your stays tight enough and keep their mugs full.” Her stays were indeed laced very tightly, Ben noticed, and she winked at him when she caught him looking.

“And has anyone said anything to you?” Ben asked her.

“A British patrol was here last night. Dragoons. Their officers spoke about an attack on the rebel lines.”

Ben noticed the man at the bar who had been watching him since he sat down was now deep in conversation with a companion. The second man left, and Ben noted the precision in his stride, and the ramrod straightness of his posture. A soldier then, in disguise. Ben leaned toward Genevieve and lowered his voice.

“Is there somewhere more private we could talk?”

“You need a room for the night, Captain?” Ginny asked. “Come on, I’ll take you up.” She took them upstairs to the end of the hall, and Ben was pleased she’d chosen a room with a window. If they needed to make a quick escape, they could. Ginny locked the door behind them.

“The soldier at the bar, have you seen him before?” Ben asked her.

“He was here yesterday,” Ginny said. “Asked if I’d seen any rebel soldiers.”

“Good thing there’s none here,” Caleb said. The stairs creaked and the sound of someone pounding on a door echoed down the hall. Ginny bent down to peer out of the keyhole.

“Redcoats. They’re searching rooms,” she whispered. Caleb looked at Ben.

“We have to put you somewhere,” he said. “Ginny and me can pass for civilians, but there’s no hiding you in that uniform.” He looked around the bare room. Ben looked out the window, only to find a group of soldiers standing outside.

“Get under the bed,” Ginny said.

“That’s the first place he’ll look,” Ben argued.

“No it isn’t,” Caleb said. The pounding on the doors grew louder as the British soldier made his way down the hall. Ginny was yanking out hairpins, her dark hair tumbling down onto her shoulders. She turned her back to Caleb.

“Help me with my dress.” Caleb was only too happy to obey, and he unlaced her bodice with a few well-practiced tugs.

“Benny, if you want to live to fight another day, you’d do best to get under the bed,” Caleb said over Ginny’s shoulder. Lacking a better option, Ben slid under the bed and backed as far against the wall as he could. It was a tight fit. Ben’s chest brushed the bed slats every time he breathed in. Caleb tossed the quilt over the edge of the mattress to conceal him. The edge of the quilt didn’t quite touch the floor, and Ben peered out anxiously from underneath it. He laid his pistol on the floor, aimed at the door and kept his finger by the trigger.

“He’s going to notice you’ve moved the quilt,” Ben said. Even a child would think to look in such an obvious hiding place.

“No he won’t,” came Caleb’s voice from somewhere up above. Ginny giggled and weight hit the straw mattress above him. The bed slats creaked under the strain and Ben thought he might be crushed as his coat buttons dug into his chest. Ben tried to ignore the whispered endearments and soft sounds of kissing coming from the bed above him. Caleb’s shirt hit the floor in front of Ben’s nose and Ben wondered just how much of this was a show.

The room shook when the soldier pounded on the door.

“Who is it?” Ginny called. She sounded out of breath.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, madam, but we received a report that a rebel spy was spotted here. I’ll be quick,” the soldier replied.

The bed creaked and Ginny got up and opened the door. She played her part well, looking every inch as though she’d been interrupted in the middle of a romantic encounter. Ben held his breath, praying he wouldn’t be found out. The soldier spent more time looking Ginny over than searching the room for spies. He made a cursory loop of the room and glanced out the window, not even coming near the bed.

“Will that be all?” Ginny asked sweetly. Ben’s grip tightened on his pistol as the soldier took a step closer to her, but he made no further advance.

“Yes ma’am, sorry to bother you. Must have been a mistake.” He closed the door behind him and Ginny waited until the sound of his heavy boots in the hall faded before she locked the door. She hurried over to the bed and tugged the quilt out of the way.

“You can come out now,” she said to Ben. Ben slid out from under the bed and brushed the dust from his coat. He walked the length of the small room, pacing anxiously.

“We need to leave,” he said to Caleb. Caleb stretched out on the bed, head pillowed on his arms. He looked rather pleased with himself and had a love-bite blooming on his collarbone.

“Why’s that? They’ve already searched our room. As far as I’m concerned, we’re in the safest place we can be,” Caleb said.

“As long as we’re here, Ginny’s in danger,” Ben said. Ginny grabbed his hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

“If I were afraid of what would happen, I wouldn’t have offered my help,” she said. “If you wait until the soldiers leave, you can climb out of the window and sneak out the back.”

“I need to get back to my troop, and warn the men that the British dragoons are advancing their lines,” Ben said. He tugged at Ginny’s hand, trying to free his own, but her grip was firm.

“Pity you can’t stay,” she said, gazing up at him from under her lashes. She laid a hand on his chest, warm even through the layers of his uniform. “That bed holds three, easily.” Ben flushed at her invitation.

“Our Captain is very dedicated to his work,” Caleb said. He was still sprawled across the bed, watching the scene in front of him with interest.

“Perhaps another time then,” Ginny said, and she released Ben from her grasp. She stood up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Good luck Captain. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you, Ginny,” he said. “Are you coming?” he asked Caleb, who gave no indication that he intended to move any time soon.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” Caleb said. “Unlike yourself, I never turn down a comfortable bed when I find it.”

Ben looked out of the window and saw that the soldiers were gone. His escape route was clear.

“I’ll see you back at camp,” Ben said to Caleb. He opened the window and climbed out into the night.

 

Caleb strode into Ben’s tent the next morning, whistling.

“Good morning,” Ben said.

“It is indeed,” Caleb replied, grinning broadly. He leaned over Ben’s writing desk and frowned at his report for Scott.

“Anything interesting?” he asked. Ben shook his head.

“Nothing half as valuable as what Ginny told me last night. Scott’s method is flawed. I wish he would at least consider the alternative,” Ben said, frustration seeping into his voice.

“Scott’s not going to change,” Caleb said.

“I know,” Ben said. “But I am.” Caleb looked at him curiously.

“Scott insists on multiple scouts gathering intelligence,” Ben said. “I’ll keep running my scouts as usual, but I already have at least one source who can report directly back to me in addition to the formal protocols.” He looked at Caleb.

“Multiple scouts,” Caleb repeated. “It’s clever, but what happens when the reports conflict?” Caleb asked.

“I won’t lose another patrol,” Ben said.

“Aye Benny, you know I’m always happy to bring you whatever I hear, but I could be shipped off anywhere. And that’s if I decide to stick around at all.” 

“What do you mean by that?” Ben asked.

“Congress is giving out privateering licenses. Instead of sitting here with you lot, I can have myself a nice fat payday.” Ben stared at him, startled. He hadn't known that Caleb had been planning to leave the army. 

Ben knew Caleb well, and he doubted anything he could say would change Caleb's mind once he had made it up. However, he hoped that the prospect of doing something besides sitting around in camp would convince Caleb to stay. 

“I’ve asked Scott to attach you to my company on special assignment,” he said. “I told him that your knowledge of the area makes you a valuable scout and your experience navigating the sound would be an asset to us.”

“And what did our good General have to say about that?” Caleb asked.

“He agreed.”

“So I’m spying for you now?” Caleb asked. Ben thought he looked pleased with the prospect.

“I need you to make contact with Abraham Woodhull back in Setauket. He can relay information to us on British activity on Long Island.”

“You really think he’d do that? Abe’s not one of us, Ben. He’s got a family.”

“Abe will do what’s right,” Ben said.

“Yeah, what _he_  thinks is right, which as far as I know is swearing loyalty to the crown,” Caleb argued.

“Find out for sure,” Ben said. “And don’t let him know your true purpose there.”

“Is that an order, Benny?” Caleb’s question held a hint of challenge.

“I _am_ your superior officer,” Ben reminded him levelly. He rarely pulled rank with Caleb, there was hardly ever the need. Silence stretched between them as Ben waited for Caleb’s response. Caleb folded his arms and gave Ben a long look, thinking. Finally, he broke into a grin.

“Just so happens I have some business up on the coast,” Caleb said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything interesting.”

* * *

 

_1777_

They laid Lucas Brewster’s body in the bottom of their whaleboat, covered with a blanket. Beside Ben, Caleb sat silent and still, unmoving except for his hand on the tiller. He’d barely spoken a word since they had left Setauket. The men were quiet too, out of reverence for the dead or sheer exhaustion, Ben didn’t know.

Instead of heading back to Fairfield, Caleb sailed into a shallow cove and beached the boat. Ben looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

“Will you help me bury him?” he asked Ben.

“Yeah, of course,” Ben said. He left his men to keep watch and they carried to body to shore. Ben let Caleb lead, until he stopped in front of a big sycamore.

“We’ll put him here,” Caleb said. “Since we can’t bury him at home.” A sick knot twisted in Ben’s stomach at Caleb’s words. He had been the one to hold Caleb back, to keep him from running into the British fortifications. Should he have let him go? Given him the chance to save his uncle? No, he thought bitterly. Had he let Caleb go, he would be burying two men.

They worked in silence to dig Lucas Brewster’s grave. The August heat was stifling and when Ben removed his coat and shirt, the sun burned across his bare back and shoulders. Caleb barely seemed to notice the heat.

When Lucas Brewster was buried, Caleb knelt by the grave and stacked a pile of smooth rocks to mark the place.

“Will you say a few words for him, Ben?” Caleb asked, and when he looked up at Ben his eyes were rimmed with red. “He always liked your father’s sermons.”

Ben bowed his head and remembered his father’s words of peace and comfort for the dead.

  


It was nearly dark by the time they finished, and Ben camped his men in the cove. He wrapped himself in his blanket and lay down on the rocky beach Caleb slept beside him, snoring lightly. The familiar sound was a comfort after the hard day, and Ben fell asleep in moments.

The snap of twigs woke Ben from a sound sleep. He lay still and looked around the camp, fingers resting lightly on his pistol. He saw nothing in the dim glow of the campfire, and the dragoon on watch hadn’t moved. Ben realized Caleb’s blanket was empty beside him. He wondered where his friend had gone. His question was answered when he noticed the slumped shadow by the fire. Caleb sat with his head bowed, a hand covering his eyes. Ben untangled himself from his blanket and picked his way through the sleeping camp. Caleb didn’t stir when he sat down next to him.

Ben looked out over the Sound, and remembered the night he’d found out about Samuel’s death.

 _"I’m sorry I couldn’t bring him back to you like I promised,”_  Caleb had said, a hand on Ben’s shoulder. A wave of guilt washed over Ben, so strong it nearly made him sick. Ben knew he needed to speak, but the words died in his throat.

_I’m sorry I couldn’t let you get yourself killed._

_I’m sorry my father lived and your uncle died._

_I’m sorry I didn’t kill Simcoe when I had the chance._

“I’m sorry about your uncle, Caleb,” Ben said quietly.

“So am I,” Caleb said. He shifted just a little, so that his shoulder touched Ben’s. Neither moved until the sun came up over the sound.

 

* * *

_1778_

“How do you plan to get it in the water?” Ben asked as he looked at the _Turtle._ Caleb had wedged himself behind the underwater craft and was fiddling with the hidden latches on the wall. Sackett’s shed gave a tremendous creak and Caleb slid half of the back wall open.

“Bushnell built a wagon to do just that,” he said. “Sackett’s probably got it around here somewhere. Then we can load it up, drive down to the bay and you’ll tow it out to the harbor in a whaleboat.”

“Well, at least you have a plan,” Ben said, sounding doubtful that Caleb’s plan would succeed. Caleb looked around the yard. Sackett had a variety of smashed gun carriages and dilapidated wagons stored behind the shed. Caleb wondered what the hell he’d been keeping all of it for. Ben picked up a corner of one of the tarps.

“What are we looking for?” he asked. He frowned at the pile of rubbish heaped under the tarp.

“Sackett said something about using a system of block and tackle to lever it up and out of the wagon,” Caleb said. One of the wagons stood taller than the others. Ben lifted a section of tarp to reveal a complicated-looking arrangement of pulleys and ropes.

“Caleb,” he said. Caleb looked over the wagon.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “Bushnell, you clever bastard.” He grabbed the other edge of the tarp and helped Ben pull it off.

“Think we can do this by ourselves?” he asked Ben.

“We’ll have to. I don’t want any word of this getting out around the camp,” Ben replied. “I’ll get the horses, you see if you can get this working.”

They backed the wagon up to Sackett’s shed, and after much trial and error had the _Turtle_ hanging from Bushnell’s conveyance. Ben stood in the wagon while Caleb manipulated the pulleys.

“Easy now,” Caleb said as he swung the _Turtle_ onboard. Ben guided the little craft into the wagon.

“Set her down,” he called. Caleb let out the ropes until the _Turtle_ settled into the wagon’s cradle, where it fit perfectly. They threw a tarp over the whole thing. Ben slid onto the wagon’s bench and took up the reins.

“This is the strangest-looking haystack I’ve ever driven,” Caleb said as Ben drove them toward the bay.

“Let’s hope no one stops and asks us any questions,” Ben replied. He was tense beside Caleb, and Caleb knew that he still didn't like his plan to get Abe out of prison. Caleb appreciated his concern, but also lacked any better option.

He wondered what Sackett would think of their plan. He'd likely also disapprove, Caleb thought. The _Turtle_ was a valuable piece of military equipment, meant for sinking ships, not rescue missions. Sackett would be horrified that he was using it as part of a half-cooked plan to smuggle Abraham out of New York City. The thought made Caleb smile. He still missed the man, God rest his grumpy soul.

Caleb hoped he would be able to return the little craft in one piece. He had let Ben believe that he had a plan in place for escaping the city once he had retrieved Abe, but in fact he decided that he would work out the exact logistics when the time came. Smuggling both Abraham and the _Turtle_ out of the city would be a difficult task, and Caleb had a feeling that he would have to sacrifice the submarine. He couldn't load Abe into it anyway, much as he would like to knock him senseless and ship him back as cargo for all the trouble he had caused.

At the water’s edge, Ben backed the wagon into the bay until water filled the bed. Caleb lashed the _Turtle_ to Ben’s whaleboat.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s float her out to sea.” Long, nerve-wracking moments passed as they slowly unloaded the _Turtle,_ walking it out of the wagon until it bobbed like a cork in the water at the end of its tether. Ben pulled the wagon back to shore and tied up the horses.

Caleb climbed into the whaleboat and pulled in the _Turtle’s_ line until it bumped gently against the dock. Despite the danger, he was more than a little excited at the opportunity to pilot such a unique craft. He knew Bushnell had tested it, but Caleb wouldn’t believe that it worked until he saw with his own eyes. Ben looked down at him apprehensively.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked. Caleb handed him the rope and climbed out of the boat.

“I’ll be fine. It’s the best way to get to Abe and you know it,” he said. Ben’s mouth had the stubborn set to it that Caleb knew meant he wanted to argue. Caleb pulled him into a hug and squeezed him tightly. “I’ll come back, Benny.” He felt Ben relax a little before he pulled away.

Caleb lowered himself carefully into the _Turtle._ The barrel creaked around him as the little craft settled lower in the water.

“Alright down there?” Ben asked, peering down into the craft. Caleb grinned up at him.

“It’s not too bad. Pretty cozy.” Ben looked like he didn’t believe him.

“I’m going to cast off in a minute,” he said.

“I’ll shout if something goes wrong,” Caleb said. He heard Ben climb into the whaleboat and the creak of oars. The _Turtle_ gave a little jerk and Caleb realized they were moving. A few little rivulets dripped down the inner seams, but otherwise the barrel didn’t leak at all. Caleb hoped he could say the same when he closed the hatch and fully submerged the barrel.

“Hey, Ben,” he called. “Since you’re rowing the boat, you have to sing.”

“No I don’t,” Ben shouted back.

“Well, you leave me no choice then. Besides, now you’ll know I’m still back here,” Caleb said. He took a deep breath and belted.

_“I wish I were a captain aboard a man-o- war_

_Sam’s gone away_

_aboard a man-o-war_

 

_I wish I were a captain aboard a man-o-war_

_Sam’s gone away_

_aboard a man-o-war_

_Pretty work brave boys_

_Pretty work I say_

_Sam’s gone away_

_aboard a man-o-war!”_

His voice carried out over the water, and as they drew closer to the harbor Caleb decided Ben had likely had enough of his singing. Caleb felt them slow, then stop, and Ben’s boat pulled up alongside the _Turtle._

“This is as far as I can take you,” Ben said. “I’m going to cut you loose.” His pale face appeared above Caleb. Caleb grinned up at him.

“Alright, Benny-boy. I’ll see you later.” Ben nodded and disappeared from Caleb’s view. Caleb reached up and closed the hatch, cranking the screws down as tightly as he could. Slowly, he opened the valve that filled the ballast tank and felt the barrel begin to sink, until the hatch sat just at the waterline. He held his breath, his heart pounding. The barrel creaked but held solid. Caleb grinned, amazed. He worked the treadles that turned the Turtle’s propeller and she began to move forward under her own power. Bushnell’s incredible machine really worked.

Caleb submerged the barrel completely and the stars disappeared as the water closed over his head. It was the strangest place the war had taken him, and Caleb was struck by how alone he was, the only man in the world hidden away on the bottom of the sea.

  


* * *

  


William Bradford sat motionless in front of Ben, hands bound, mouth gagged. Bradford glared up at him hatefully. Ben untied the gag.

“How long have you been working against us, Bradford?” Ben asked. He paced the dirt floor of the hut, tapping his fingers anxiously on the hilt of his sword. Bradford’s eyes followed him.

“You’ll get nothing out of me, Tallmadge,” Bradford said, a smirk pulling at his bloodied mouth. “We both know I’m going to hang, confession or no.”

“If you cooperate, you’ll hang for counterfeiting, not treason,” Ben said.

“You think I care about that? I’d do it again. Washington’s not fit to command.”

“And Lee is? He turned over his own men to the British,” Ben said.

“You mean your men? Who couldn’t even manage a handful of irregular troops?”

Ben’s fist rocked his head back. Fresh blood dripped from Bradford’s nose, and he gagged and spat into the dirt.

“Quite the temper you’ve got there, Tallmadge. Hitting me won’t bring them back, you know.”

Bradford was right, but Ben hit him again anyway for good measure.

“What else does Lee know?” Ben asked. Bradford huffed a laugh.

“That’s expensive information. I doubt you could afford it. Maybe we could work out a trade, though,” he said.

“The only trade is what goes on the official paperwork,” Ben said. Bradford licked the blood from his lips. He looked Ben over, the undamaged corner of his mouth curling in a sneer.

“Does Washington like that pretty mouth of yours, Tallmadge? Do you all line up for him and take your turn, all his handsome young men who worship him? Tell you what, you get on your knees and pretend I’m the general, and I’ll tell you everything we told Lee about Culper.”

Ben did break Bradford’s nose this time. Red crept over his vision as he struck Bradford over and over. He was dimly aware of the cabin door opening. Someone grabbed his wrist before he could hit Bradford again, and a strong arm crossed his chest, holding him still.

“Ben! That’s enough, you’ll kill the poor bastard,” Caleb said, his tone unusually sharp. It got Ben’s attention, pulling him from his red rage. Ben pulled out of Caleb’s grip and took a step back, breathing heavily. Caleb laid a hand on his chest, putting himself between Ben and Bradford. He looked up at Ben.

“Benny, calm down,” he said quietly. “He’s not worth it.” Ben nodded. He knew Caleb was right, but Bradford, Lee, and Hickey had nearly destroyed the Continental Army from the inside, and he longed to cut the rotten core from the chain of command.

Ben pulled in a deep breath and felt the anger bleed out of him. An empty, hollow-feeling calm had taken its place. His right hand throbbed and a glance down revealed his split and swelling knuckles. Caleb gave his shoulders a brief squeeze and let him go.

Bradford had collapsed forward, his breathing harsh through the wreckage of his nose.

Caleb crouched in front of Bradford and slapped his cheek, which seemed to rouse him. Caleb let out a low whistle when he saw the state of Bradford’s face.

“Goddamn,” he murmured. “That’s some interrogation, Ben.” He grabbed a handful of Bradford’s hair and yanked his head back. “What the hell did you say to him?” he asked. Bradford choked and spat blood across Caleb’s boots.

“Take him to Washington,” Ben said. “He knows about Culper. He’ll hang for treason.”

As Bradford choked to death at the end of the rope, Ben couldn’t help but think that the shot to his heart was more than he deserved.

* * *

 

  


Caleb returned to camp at midday. All the way from Rocky Point the sky had been lead-gray and cloudy, promising rain. It did nothing to ease the unsettled feeling that had travelled with Caleb the whole way back from Beekman's. Cold, heavy raindrops fell on his shoulders as he headed straight for Ben's tent. He wanted to report to Ben himself about the failure of his raid before Ben heard it secondhand with the rest of the camp gossip.

He ducked inside, out of the rain, and found the tent empty. Ben’s uniform and sword were slung over the back of his chair. Caleb felt as though someone had touched a cold finger to the nape of his neck. He knew Ben had pursued Worthington with the purpose of killing him, but certainly he should have returned within the day. Rain pattered on the tent canvas. Perhaps the weather had delayed Ben on the road. 

Caleb walked to the stable in the downpour. Inside, the warm, close smell of horse and hay met him. He scanned down the line of stalls, looking for Ben's charger. The horse was absent, and the feeling of not-rightness that had been dogging him all day came back with force. Caleb caught a flash of blue coat around a corner -- not Ben, the height and build were wrong-- and poked his head around to find Ben's sergeant working grease into a saddle.

"Lieutenant Brewster. Good to see you," he said, pausing in his work.

“Major Tallmadge back yet?” Caleb asked. The sergeant gave him a puzzled look.

“They brought him in this morning,” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘brought him in’?” Caleb asked. Ice settled in his stomach.

“He showed up this morning gut-shot and out of uniform. Gave the sentry the password and fainted dead away. Looked terrible, like he'd run all the way from-"

Caleb didn’t listen to the rest of the story. He made for the field hospital at a dead run. 

The large tent was dim and stank of old blood and unwashed bodies. Women moved slowly between the rows of cots, smoothing blankets and administering medicine. Caleb felt suffocated, and wanted to turn and walk out. He didn't see Ben amongst the rows of sick and wounded, and he felt panic wind up in his gut when he realized Ben might not be here at all, but instead in the smaller tent outside, where bodies were dressed for burial. 

The camp surgeon had his back to Caleb; he was giving directions to one of the orderlies. Dr. Leonard was his name, Caleb remembered. A kind man, competent enough as camp doctors went.

“Is Major Tallmadge here?” Caleb asked, startling the camp surgeon.

“Brewster,” Dr. Leonard said, turning to him. “You’re Tallmadge’s friend.” Caleb nodded. He was surprised Leonard remembered his name, much less his connection to Ben.

"Yeah, I am. Where is he?"

“Come with me,” said Leonard. Caleb followed him to the back of the large tent, past rows of low cots until they came to the last in the row, tucked against the side of the tent. Ben lay still, tucked under several blankets and either asleep or unconscious.

“I got the ball out of him," Leonard said quietly. "He was lucky it wasn’t in very deep, but he’s lost a lot of blood. Should be alright as long as he doesn’t catch a fever. I gave him laudanum, so don’t expect him to wake up any time soon. You can sit with him if you’d like. He’d probably appreciate the company." Leonard brushed past Caleb; he had other patients to attend to.

"Oh, and if he does wake up, you can give him this," he added. He picked up a cup from the chair next to Ben's cot that functioned as a night-stand and tipped its contents into his hand. "Some of the men like to keep them for luck.” He handed Caleb the pistol-ball he’d removed from Ben. Caleb tucked it in his pocket, a small weight against his hip.

Caleb looked down at Ben. He didn’t think he’d ever seen his friend so ashen and completely still, not even when he’d pulled him from the Delaware. He had nearly died then, too, Caleb thought. He shivered at the memory of that long, freezing night.

“Oh Benny-boy, what happened to you?” he said sadly, sinking into the chair beside Ben’s cot. He’d half-expected Ben to respond, but Ben didn’t stir except for the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket. Caleb picked up Ben's hand from where it lay at his side and squeezed it gently. Ben's long fingers were cold, and remained limp in his own. He lifted the blanket and tucked Ben's hand underneath it.

Serving on whaleships had ground most of Caleb’s fear out of him, and the war had nearly finished the job. But when he looked down at Ben, so pale and uncharacteristically still that he could have been dead, he was truly afraid. He wondered if Ben had been afraid, as he’d run from whoever had put that wound in his side. He wished he hadn’t let Ben go after the Reverend alone.

He could keep Ben company now. Caleb propped his boots on the edge of Ben’s cot, leaned back in his chair, and waited for Ben to wake.

  
  


Ben woke to the sound of familiar snoring, which was strange, since his last memory was of stumbling into camp before the ground came rushing up at him…

He opened his eyes and squinted at the brightness. The light made his head throb unpleasantly. When his vision came back into focus, he realized he was in the field hospital. Beside him, the source of the snoring slept upright in a chair, his feet propped on the edge of Ben’s cot. He wondered how long Caleb had been sitting there with him. His mind felt sluggish and thick, and Ben found that he was content to watch the play of sunlight as it streamed in through the little gaps in the tent’s canvas.

His side ached, the pain sharp and deep. He lifted the blanket that covered him to view the damage. His bloody clothes were gone and his waist was wrapped tightly in bandages. He touched his side carefully and pain flared back. He closed his eyes, hoping doing so would ease his headache.

“About time you woke up,” Caleb said quietly, startling him. “I was beginning to think I’d be running our little operation by myself." Ben swallowed, his throat dry. Caleb didn't know how close he was to the truth. Caleb handed him a cup of water. He leaned up on one elbow to drink and immediately regretted the decision to move as it sent pain spiking down his side. Caleb noticed his wince and frowned.

“Want to tell me how you ended up with this?” Caleb asked, holding up the ball Dr. Leonard had extracted from Ben’s side. Ben held out his hand and Caleb dropped it into his palm. Ben examined it thoughtfully.

“A parting gift from our old friend Gamble,” Ben said. “He tracked me down while I was taking care of Worthington. He was going to take me to John Andre.”

“He was Worthington’s contact?” Caleb asked, his eyes widening with surprise. “I’ll kill the murdering bastard.”

“Believe me, I’d like to,” Ben said. Ben would never forget how helpless he’d felt, holding Nathaniel Sackett as he gasped for air, his blood spilling over Ben’s hands, his eyes wide with terror as Ben tried to calm him. Ben swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat. Caleb squeezed his shoulder and looked down at him, his eyes dark and serious. He looked very tired, Ben thought.

“It wasn’t your fault, Ben. Stop blaming yourself. Sackett would be proud of you, for what you did for Washington.” Ben nodded. He knew that Caleb was right, but he still felt responsible for Sackett's death. Caleb patted Ben’s chest and stood, groaning as his spine popped from hours slumped in a hard chair.

“Well Benny, you enjoy these fine accommodations, some of us have a war to get back to. We’ll save some action for you.” Ben watched Caleb leave, frustrated that he couldn’t get up and join him. Even their brief conversation had left him feeling tired, and his side and head both ached miserably. He knew the fastest way to return to his duties was to rest and heal, but he hated being forced to rest in a hospital bed when there was still so much work to be done.

He rolled the pistol ball Caleb had given him between his fingers. He owed Gamble a shot twice over, and Ben would ensure that he got it.

 

* * *

_1782_

The overturned whaleboat sheltered Ben from the sleet but did nothing for the freezing wind that howled in off the sound. It seemed to cut straight through his uniform. Ben shivered and pulled his blanket more tightly around him, hugging his knees to his chest. Caleb slept beside him, his head tipped against Ben’s shoulder. He envied Caleb’s ability to fall asleep anywhere, regardless of the conditions. At least a little warmth seeped through on his right side.

Ben couldn’t sleep, kept awake by the drumming of sleet on the boat and the bitter cold. The raid was looking less promising by the hour as the weather worsened. Restless, he eased out from under the boat, taking care not to disturb Caleb. Rain stung on his face as it pelted down on his little raiding party. His men were barely visible under the shelter of their whaleboats, but the chance of British patrols discovering them grew the longer Ben delayed. Soon he would have to decide to either proceed with their planned raid or cancel the excursion. The wind had died down a little, but the abysmal weather remained and the Sound looked rough.

Caleb found Ben pacing on the beach, anxiously watching the horizon for signs of British raiders.

“I don’t like it, Ben,” Caleb said, eyeing the rough waters.

“I had a feeling you would say that,” Ben replied. “Can it be done, though? The weather will give us good cover, and the redcoats will never expect a raid in these conditions.”

Caleb grinned at him. “Oh sure, it can be done, Benny. You’ll probably want to be sure you’re sitting down though. Swells like this can throw a man out of an open boat, easy.”

“Alright,” Ben said, ignoring Caleb’s jab. “Get the men up and we’ll get the boats in the water. If we wait any longer, we’ll lose our advantage.”

Ben placed Caleb in command and they got their little raiding force under sail. The rough water made for difficult sailing, and Caleb heard more than one dragoon vomit over the side. Beside Caleb, Ben clung hard to the gunwale. Caleb scanned the horizon for boats, and soon enough he saw the outlines of sails.

“Get your men ready, Tall-boy,” he said. “We’ve got sails up ahead.”

  


The battle was short but violent. The British raiders refused to be subdued, fighting very nearly to the last man. Caleb gave up on his pistol early, finding that his tomahawk was a better weapon in such close quarters. Men fell around him; dragoons and raiders. He’d lost track of Ben, though he could hear him shouting orders. Ben’s men were well-trained and well practiced, a formidable force once set upon their enemy.

Caleb wrenched his tomahawk free from a redcoat’s neck and saw too late the soldier taking aim at him. Something hot struck him hard in the right shoulder, and he staggered back a little. When he touched his shoulder, his hand came away wet and sticky with blood. The pain came then, spreading out from under his collarbone in a wave that left him breathless. He tried to call to Ben but couldn’t get a breath in around the crushing agony in his chest. Gray fogged the edges of his vision.

A blur of blue appeared at his right side and a  gunshot exploded by his ear. The man who’d shot him toppled over the side of his boat, felled by Ben’s carbine. The cry of surrender rose over the boats, followed by the dragoons’ shout of victory.

Ben looked him over anxiously. “Are you hit?” he asked.

“Hey, Tall-boy. Good fight, yeah?” Caleb asked, ignoring his question.

“What happened?” Ben asked when he saw the blood on Caleb’s coat and shirt. Caleb glanced at the wound, afraid to examine it too closely. The pain was making him light headed.

“Just a graze, Benny. You alright?” Ben himself was looking rather worse for wear, blood dripping from his nose and a cut over his eye. Many of their men were wounded.

“I’m fine,” Ben said dismissively, wiping his nose on his sleeve. His gaze fell to the dark stain spreading across Caleb’s shirt. “That’s not just a graze,” he said, and opened Caleb’s jacket before Caleb could stop him. His eyes widened when he saw the wound.

“Christ, Caleb. Sit down,” he ordered, and pushed Caleb down onto the bench. Caleb flinched as Ben examined his wound, peeling the bloodsoaked  shirt away from his skin. The ragged hole under his collarbone was bleeding steadily, and Ben’s mouth compressed into a worried line when he saw the matching one in his back.

“It went clean through,” Ben told him grimly. “You need a doctor.” Caleb closed his eyes against the dizziness, exacerbated by the rough water. Though gentle, Ben’s manipulation of his shoulder had made him nauseous.

“You’ll have to do,” Caleb said through clenched teeth. “You can’t be any worse than that ham-handed surgeon back at camp.” Ben bit his lip, disliking Caleb’s suggestion. Caleb squeezed Ben’s arm reassuringly. “It’ll be fine. Hand me my flask.”

Ben handed him his flask and Caleb took several large, fortifying swallows. Ben pulled away his shirt and coat and Caleb shivered when the cold air hit his skin. He handed his flask back to Ben, who took a long drink himself. He’d gathered his bandages: both of their handkerchiefs, Caleb’s neckcloth and Ben’s stock. Caleb hoped it would be enough to prevent him from bleeding out on the road back to camp.

“Ready?” Ben asked. Caleb nodded. Ben tipped the remainder of Caleb’s whiskey over the wounds and politely ignored Caleb’s howl of agony. Gray fog spread over his vision and he slumped against the gunwale, breathing hard.

“Easy,” Ben murmured as he steadied him. “It won’t get any worse.” Caleb huffed a laugh. Ben pressed down hard on the wound below his collarbone with a folded handkerchief and Caleb gasped.

“You’re a filthy liar,” he said, panting a little with the pain.

“Hold this,” Ben said, pressing Caleb’s hand against the wound. He repeated the process on the other side with the second handkerchief, and used his stock and Caleb’s neckcloth to tightly bind Caleb’s shoulder. By the time he was finished, Caleb was light-headed and half-sick. Ben squeezed his sound shoulder.

“Alright?” he asked. He was pale under the blood on his face, and looked exhausted. Caleb nodded, and even that small motion hurt. The adrenaline from battle had bled away, and without it he felt barely able to sit upright. He shivered and leaned against Ben’s shoulder, grateful for the support.

Caleb let himself drift until their whaleboat bumped up on the shore. He got to his feet, feeling the boat sway under him despite the shore below. Ben caught his elbow to steady him. Caleb managed to climb over the gunwale, cold water soaking him to the thighs. The sandy shore seemed to slip away under his boots, and Caleb barely realized that he was falling until a strong arm caught him around the waist. Caleb let Ben take his weight and guide him to sit by a tree.

Ben was shouting orders and Caleb watched as his tired, injured men obeyed without question. They would follow him anywhere, Caleb knew, and do anything he asked. They had proven themselves over and over as they carried out the raids all along Devil’s Belt. Muddy boots filled his vision and Caleb looked up at Ben, waiting for his orders.

“You’re riding with me,” Ben told him. Caleb didn’t argue, knowing that he was in no condition to ride on his own. The rough bandage around his shoulder was already stained red. Ben gave him a leg up into the saddle and he clung to Ben’s saddlebow as Ben mounted up behind him. Something heavy and warm settled over his shoulders and Caleb tugged the blanket around himself more tightly. He’d been growing steadily colder since he’d been wounded, and the soaking, freezing rain had made him shiver. Ben put his arm around his waist and Caleb leaned back against him.

The terrible weather and icy, muddy roads slowed the ride back to camp considerably. Sleet stung on Caleb's face, and he could feel Ben shivering behind him. Ben's dragoons rode beside them in close order, their silent shadows barely visible in the rain and dark. Caleb's shoulder was throbbing badly, and each jar and jostle of the horse sent pain thumping through the wound.

Ben talked to him sometimes, but Caleb lacked the energy to keep up his end of the conversation. Pressed against Ben's chest, he could feel his tension. Ben hid it well, but Caleb realized that he was afraid. He squeezed Ben's knee with his good hand, hoping the touch would reassure Ben that he did not intend to die anytime soon.

“Try to get some rest,” Ben told him, quiet in his ear. “We’ll be back at camp in the morning.”

Caleb closed his eyes, knowing Ben wouldn’t let him fall.

  


Caleb woke slowly, pulled back to consciousness by the pain in his shoulder. The wound ached with a deep, dull throb. The pain was bearable, but he still felt terribly weak. Dim light filtered through the curtains, and Caleb guessed it to be late afternoon. The room was familiar, and he realized that he was in the house where Ben was quartered. The bed beneath him was far more comfortable than a camp hospital cot. His soaked clothes were gone, and he was tucked securely under several quilts. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so warm.

By the time he arrived in camp in the pre-dawn hours, Caleb's wound had bled through the makeshift bandaging and the blanket Ben had wrapped around him. Light-headed and half-frozen, Caleb had nearly fallen from the horse when Ben dismounted. Ben had helped him down safely, but after hours of riding in the cold, wounded and bleeding, Caleb's knees had given out on him completely once on the ground.

He had vague memories of Ben half-carrying, half-dragging him up the stairs to his room, and then of the camp surgeon prodding at his shoulder while he shouted. Ben had practically sat on him to keep him still while the surgeon fished the shreds of Caleb’s shirt from the wound. Ben had looked exhausted: hollow-eyed, splashed with mud, his coat stained deeply across the right shoulder with Caleb’s blood.  He wondered where Benny-boy had gone off to, after he’d dropped him here to recuperate. He looked around the small room.

Ben hadn’t gone far at all: he was curled up on the floor in front of the fireplace, his blanket tucked up to his nose, face buried in a pillow. Someone had made him a pallet out of the ugliest quilt Caleb had ever seen. His uniform steamed in front of the fire, and Caleb noticed that someone had scrubbed the blood out of it. Ben slept the sleep of the completely exhausted, his breathing deep and even.

Caleb eyed the pitcher of water on the stand across the room and wondered if he could manage the short walk. His mouth felt like something had died in it after sleeping for so long and the dose of laudanum the surgeon had given him. He levered himself up on his good elbow and suppressed a gasp as the movement pulled the wound.

The quilts slid to his waist and Caleb looked down at himself. His shoulder was wrapped in heavy bandaging, his bad arm strapped across his chest. The room spun slowly around as Caleb eased himself fully upright. He leaned against the headboard and took a few deep breaths until the dizziness subsided. The bed creaked under him and Ben jolted awake at the noise, reaching for his pistol.

“Caleb?”

“Easy, Benny. Just stretching a little. You can put your gun away.”

“You alright?” Ben asked, returning the pistol to its place on the floor. He sat up and rubbed a hand over his face. His hair was sliding from its plait and Ben pushed it out of his eyes, blinking sleepily. 

“Yeah, I’m good. Just needed a drink. Go back to sleep,” Caleb said.

Ben got off the floor and pulled on his breeches. He moved stiffly as he crossed the room, and Caleb could see the shadow of deep bruising along his left side, like he’d been struck with the butt of a musket. He doubted sleeping on the floor had helped it much.

Ben handed Caleb a cup of cool water and Caleb gulped it down, thinking it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. Ben settled on the edge of Caleb’s bed and looked him over, mouth tight with worry. Caleb’s gaze fell to the scar on Ben’s bare shoulder, a mark of war that matched Caleb’s own.

“How do you feel?” Ben asked.

“Well it’s not the best way I’ve ever woken up after a hard ride, and I didn’t care much for the bastard who raked around in my shoulder, but I suppose it’s preferable to not waking up at all,” Caleb said.

“I’m sorry about your shoulder,” Ben said. He looked troubled, and Caleb knew Ben blamed himself. He wished he could lift the heavy weight of responsibility from his friend, just for a little while.

“It’s not your fault that arsehole shot me. It’ll be a good story to tell when the war’s over. I do appreciate you dragging my sorry arse back to camp in that awful storm.”

“You were terrible company,” Ben said.

“I always am,” Caleb replied, grinning. “But without me, you’d have to do our work all on your own. That’s an awful lot for one man, Benny,” he finished quietly.

“You are my true friend, Caleb,” Ben said. His eyes were bright and serious when they met Caleb’s. Ben so rarely spoke his heart, and Caleb was deeply touched.

“It’s an honor,” Caleb said. Nothing they had accomplished could have been done by one man alone. In the twilight months of the war they would endure, until their work was complete and they were free.


End file.
